The Danvers Men
by Relala
Summary: A collection of short moments in the lives of the Danvers men. •DRABBLETS•
1. Edward Danvers

**DISCLAIMER:** _Women of the Otherworld__, its publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**CHAPTER TITLE: **Edward Danvers

**AUTHOR: **Relala

**BETA: **lady of scarlet

**FANDOM STATUS: **Fanon/Canon

**SPOILERS: **For **Men Of The Otherworld **or the online short story **Infusion **released in 2005

* * *

**GRANDSON**

"I'm so very sorry, sweetheart," Edward whispered, voice cracked in the middle like an ancient stone.

Scalding tears welled up within his chocolate-coloured eyes as he clenched his weakened hands in frustrated grief, anger forcing a low growl out of his throat. The old man felt broken inside; shaken up like a bottle of champagne and left to explode all alone in the middle of the living room as he stood over the lady's still-warm body. But he wouldn't—couldn't—afford to lose his hard-won control. Tearing his gaze away from the red ruin that had once been a beautiful girl before his son's handiwork, Edward gathered up his newborn grandson. He wrapped him up in a thick blanket and exited the front door, leaving the murder scene further behind him with every limping footfall.

* * *

**THUMP**

Edward tries not to hear their whispering voices and booming laughter. He tries to avoid the accusations in their eyes and the twitches of their mocking lips as they grin at him, teeth bared like the worst of monsters from any fairytale. He holds his head up high as he walks by them, betraying no weakness as his walking cane goes _thump, thump, thump. _It's a long walk down the hallway and their eyes follow him as if he is a wounded doe, but he doesn't acknowledge the weight of their gazes.

Edward is no coward.

No boy afraid of the big bad wolf.

* * *

**PATTERN**

Father is dying and little ten-year-old Edward cannot bring himself to give a damn, but Grandfather pushes him gently into the room, telling him that these are the last moments he will ever have with his Father and that he should spend them wisely. If anything, however, this makes Edward feel somewhat relieved. He'd loved his Father once when he was a very young child—back when he was able to ride upon his Father's broad shoulders and touch the Heavens with his chubby hands—but towards the end, the man had developed a mean right hook and his rumbling voice, which sounded of crunched gravel, had taken to screaming bloody murder more than telling adventure stories.

At ten, Edward is not capable of comprehending the pattern of hatred which is passed from Father to Son throughout the generations. He merely stands at his Father's bedside, unable to forgive and unwilling to forget.

* * *

**ANNABEL LEE**

It doesn't matter if he only knew Annabel for a summer, because he can still remember her tanned face under the sunbursts by the pond, her flashing eyes which could covey every emotion within a heartbeat, and her curly brown locks which he wound his fingers into like needles and thread. In the early evening they had sailed their stolen boat out into the tranquil waters with a bottle of white wine in their hands and nervous smiles on their lips.

Edward hadn't been a werewolf yet, merely a seventeen-year-old schoolboy enjoying the last weeks of summertime. In the sweet breeze and under the pale moonlight, Edward Danvers is foolish enough to believe that she will be his forever.

* * *

**STONEHAVEN FIELDS **

When Edward killed his first Mutt there was _some _remorse.

Remorse enough for him to haul the body down to the lake as if it were a Pack son within his arms. Remorse enough to riffle through his pockets for ID so that he could at least know his victim's name, even if it was a fake one. Remorse enough to bury the poor sod under the glinting sunlight which shone through Stonehaven's forest. Remorse enough to mutter some two-bit lines which he half-recalled from having to repeat them every November eleventh all through his school years.

"We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow …"

* * *

**LIES WE TELL OURSELVES**

Edward Danvers isn't able to sleep most nights. He's plagued by nightmares which chase him down like hounds on a scent and when he awakens in sudden fright, he denies it all.

It's not that he feels he should avenge their murders, he tells himself, it's just that he feels guilty that he couldn't prevent their violent deaths. He feels guilty for not showing up on time. He doesn't feel he should kill Malcolm for them. He doesn't feel that a life should be taken for a life. That wouldn't be right. That wouldn't be proper. He would never want to kill his own son - his one and only son! -for some unknown murdered women.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

* * *

**HUSH**

Stonehaven is utterly silent when Malcolm is gone.

The presence of peace breathes in every room and hallway and forest nook, sweeping into the hearts of the two remaining residents. They both heave loud sighs of relief but it barely disturbs the calm air around them. With Malcolm gone they are comfortable and free, settling into their own places in the house to enjoy this rare escape.

When their eyes meet there is no tension, when their lips twitch it isn't in hate but rather to form soft smiles. They don't need words, these two beings, to understand one another.

They are content in the tranquil hush.

* * *

**GUARDING TREASURE**

Edward is always an object in the background of Malcolm's life; waiting for his son to screw up.

He is the faded ghost in the corner of the Sorrentino home – eyes ever watchful, whiskey eternally in hand. He has become a moribund guard-hound, limbs aching and brittle and ears half deaf but eyes never wavering from their treasure. Edward watches. He waits. So that when Malcolm does screw up he will be there… to save him.

* * *

**BLISSFUL**

Jeremy and Antonio are cute little bundles of mischief at five and six years old. In the summertime at Stonehaven their faces are bright and playful, their skin kissed by golden sunshine and their smiles as wide as watermelon slices.

When Grandfather Edward comes out to join them in their frolicking, they dance around his beanstalk legs and walking cane, laughing with the true joy which only children can muster. They tug gently on his wrinkled hands and pull him into the long green grass. Running and chasing, hunting and hiding.

For a few moments under the scorching sunbursts there is bliss at Stonehaven.

* * *

**CRIPPLE**

While all the others are out hunting down a buck for dinner during a Meet, Edward is left behind, the dust from their paws kicked into his face. He yearns for what they all take for granted - the chase, the hunt, the adrenaline. There had been a time once when he had been the fastest of them all, a time when he had run with the wind in his fur and been the runner up for Alphahood, but those days have been over for decades.

Edward Danvers is nothing more than a washed up old wolf to them now, clearly seen as nothing more than a cripple. As the others prove themselves to be real wolves, Edward places his muzzle on his paws and lays his old body down in the grass.


	2. Malcolm Danvers

**DISCLAIMER:** _Women of the Otherworld__, its publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**CHAPTER TITLE: **Malcolm Danvers

**AUTHOR: **Relala

**BETA: **lady of scarlet

**FANDOM STATUS: **Fanon/Canon

**SPOILERS: **For **Men Of The Otherworld **

* * *

**BRAVADO**

"I have something you don't: Control. While you're off losing your temper like some deranged animal with a rabies problem I'll be shoving my fist so far into your throat that you'll choke on it. You say that you're following your instincts, Malcolm, but we both know you're not. You're merely letting your emotions devour your sense of self. I'm relying on instincts...they tell me no matter how cocky you are, you're just a snot nosed Pack brat."

False bravado is a wonderful thing when someone can't call your bluff.

This is the only time Malcolm lets a mutt live.

* * *

**DAYDREAMING**

Malcolm Danvers never told a single living soul about it, but when he was little - maybe six or seven - he used to dream about getting married. While all the other boys in school were busy with the timeless subject of "What Will You Be When You Grow Up?" and thinking of being ninjas or astronauts, he was busy dreaming of the towering white church with his bride running down the stone steps towards him, laughing behind a white veil which always hid her face. This dream was so vivid, so deeply rooted inside his brain, that even fifty years later he can still hear the imaginary church bells ringing in his head.

If it had just been a dream about marrying a woman, he could have gritted his teeth and told his Pack brothers about this silly fantasy. Many a man had made himself a fool for the mating instinct...but Malcolm had always wanted the whole deal. The white picket fence in front of the house, the blushing bride falling into the manly arms of her husband, the sweet faces of his sons and even his daughters...the human blood within his veins.

He was never a werewolf in these dreams.

* * *

**DRAINPIPE**

The sky is bleeding like a son of a bitch when Malcolm Danvers dies, a sudden downpour of freezing cold tears the colour of rotted grey flesh. He's lying in some parking lot outside the double doors of some shitty strip club named Diva's with his blood creating a puddle beneath him. The streetlamps glow butter yellow and golden orange and he closes his eyes against their burning light and they are the last thing he sees because he cannot summon up the will to force his stone eyelids open.

He just lies there in the empty parking lot with Raymond hovering over him, his old Pack brother savoring every last dying moment of his life and soon-to-be murder.

If he were to be honest, he had known this was coming. He had known Raymond would kill him from the moment he'd killed Andrew. This, however, was not what he had been expecting. Somehow, he thinks this is a nice way to go out. Peacefully. Knowing he deserves so very much worse.

The rain washes away his blood, sweeping it into the river of water and escorting it down the drainpipes and Raymond, watching, thinks that Malcolm has finally found a place where he truly belongs.

* * *

**FRIENDSHIP BEFORE FALL**

Dominic's life is a schedule of events with not a hair out of line: Breakfast in the morning with his brothers and his Poppa, some offhand Pack duties before lunch, training in the afternoon and into the early evening and free time in the later hours. He is the eldest Sorrentino heir, after all, and he cannot truly afford to be a loafer.

Sometimes, however, Malcolm manages to seduce him away from his duties and together they make off into the night to go terrorize a few mutts. They make a good team: The older wolf and the newly Changed Malcolm who isn't quite much of a wolf yet but is starting to play the part. One day, there will be a horrible rivalry for Alpha that will destroy their friendship forever and separate the Pack...but for now they are both young men seeking friendship.

* * *

**THE HUNT**

Confusion. Malcolm wasn't honestly able to think "normally" in his current four-footed body but even as a human, things had become obscure for him. Everything had been perfectly normal; Malcolm had been going about life as the typical werewolf would. Hanging with his Pack brothers, hunting during Pack Meets, running through the woods at Stonehaven on his own, chasing off the few humans who dared enter his territory. It had all seemed so like the usual events that he never even thought about it. By the time he realized he was actually hunting the humans, it was much too late to fix anything, really.

* * *

**HOLDING HANDS**

Malcolm and Dominic are both more than a little drunk as they stumble out the doors of the little pub with their arms wrapped around each other to steady themselves. The streetlamps cast an orange puddle of light upon the empty road as they make their way back to the Sorrentino estate, leaving the Danvers' family shit-box of a car in the parking lot. The only sounds are that of the gravel which crunches under their heavy footfalls, and occasionally their clumsy laughter when one of them trips; Their hushed, nervous, breathing.

The next time Malcolm trips it's Dominic's hand in his own which yanks him to his feet, whirling him into the older man's muscled chest. His hand which mysteriously had been in Malcolm's grasp since they left the pub.

* * *

**HIS SON**

_Malcolm forced his hands to the child's throat._

The infant's dark eyes shimmered under the lighting, peaceful in the arms of the strange new man who held him. Curious. Content to gaze into the fiery hatred in Malcolm's eyes (not knowing what the look meant) and to feel his father's large warm hand upon his naked skin.

_"Stop! He's your son!"_

The words echoed inside the man's head as if he were standing in a cave. His son. As much as he was terrified to admit it, the words had a beauty to them. **_His son_**. His child, made from his own flesh and blood. A tiny little thing held within his arms, so easily breakable, so silent it was terrifying. But nonetheless, his son.

* * *

**SKILLS OF A LEGEND**

At seventeen-years-old Malcolm is already the best fighter in the Pack's younger generation of late teens and junior members. He hasn't even had his first Change yet; a much talked about fact when it comes to the fact that he has already fought fully Changed werewolves and come out as the victor. Already, his fighting skills - skills he has learnt in the schoolyard of his boyhood and the backdoor bars and dark alleys as he grew older - have earned him rumours, whispered at night to scare the new wolf children. He has killed a wolf with his bare hands, they say. He enjoys the death, they mutter. He's the underdog rising behind Dominic's back, they whisper. He's a living legend, he knows.

* * *

**THE BOOGIEWOLF**

The amber coloured wolf skidded into the hall before he smacked into the brick wall, panic causing his eyes to widen as the echo of paws hitting gravel sounded behind him. Snarling in terror he tried to think. This was the same old game he'd always played: The hunt, the chase, the catch. Only this time, he was the one being chased.

A loud, bone chilling howl.

The amber wolf turned slowly to meet the officially spoken Challenge in terror. This was every mutt's nightmare. This was the boogieman of the werewolves. A black form as swift as shadows with eyes as yellow as the sun. Malcolm, his mind supplies, before the world fades.

* * *

**LOVE ME**

Malcolm placed his hard-knuckled hands over his Father's cold ones and gazed into the old wolf's eyes as his life slowly slipped away. The breath rattling in his chest, his heartbeat slowing, his body immobilized on the bed. Dying.

Their eyes locked. Connection.

Father and son sank into another realm, a realm made of their thoughts and images only they knew of. A world created by faded pictures and blurred memories of long ago. Images of saddened faces and disappointments and shame.

_Love me,_ they thought together. _You were supposed to love me._


	3. Jeremy Danvers

**DISCLAIMER: **_Women of the Otherworld__, its publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**CHAPTER TITLE: **Jeremy Danvers

**AUTHOR: **Relala

**BETA: **lady of scarlet

**FANDOM STATUS: **Fanon/Canon

**SPOILERS: **For **Men Of The Otherworld **and** No Humans Involved **

**

* * *

**

**ALPHA RACE **

Malevolence leaks into their predominantly peaceful life at Stonehaven like water flowing down a mountain. It's inevitable; always has been. The little things, which have eternally signalled threat in the bushes of Eden like Adam and Eve desiring clothes, become full blown danger. Malcolm watching with hatred in the shadows as fourteen-year-old Clayton tries out his new weight set, Raymond and his brother leering across the table at the Pack Meets.

It won't be long, Jeremy thinks, before his fellow Pack members begin to wear pins showing their Alpha selection.

* * *

**BOTTLED UP **

Jeremy Danvers would describe his anger like a wine cellar. Hidden away from public view, chilly and dark, every single rage-drenched thought coming with the exact date and perfectly categorized label. _1954, Father Blames Everything On Me As Dead Corpse Bleeds Out Onto The White Carpet. _

He was sure that one day the dusty door to this private Hell would be found, the cellar explored by his own soft paws. He was also quite sure that when this happened, his anger would be spilled all over the floor...and whoever stood near him. He would smash the bottles before he uncorked them and he would shatter himself into pieces.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

**DEATH OF CHILDHOOD**

The rain came down, sobbing drops of freezing water which slid down the windowpane and left fog on the glass. The clouds, as cold and grey as steel, attempting to re-enact the Biblical flood as everyone waited for Edward Danvers to draw his last breath. People walked down the hallway and Jeremy - in a daze - caught snippets of their conversations "Six feet under already", "a real tragedy, too be sure" and "wish he'd hurry it up already."

Within his bedroom, behind closed doors, Jeremy shivers. He is caught between the desire to laugh at their sarcastic tones or sob at their nonchalance. Don't any of them understand that his soul is shattering? That his world is breaking to pieces? Doesn't anyone else care?

* * *

**FIRST CHANGE **

During a walk in Bear Valley, nineteen-year-old Jeremy begins to notice what any adult werewolf would know as the telltale signs of the Change. The itching behind his knees and atop his scalp, the heightened hearing which picks up a car door slamming a block away and the enhanced sense of smell which picks up the rotted stench inside a sterilized garbage bin within an alleyway. He slides behind the green oversized container and crouches down.

He isn't an adult werewolf, of course, but he knows the signs. Knows what's coming. His best friend has told him time and time again what it's like.

Now it's his chance to find out.

* * *

**I DON'T BELONG HERE **

As he walks through the doors and murmurs his polite hello to Dominic, the boisterous voices of thirteen-year-old Antonio and his companion Peter echoing down the hallway like rumbling thunder, twelve-year-old Jeremy _knows_ that he doesn't belong.

No, he doesn't want to roughhouse with the other children and no _(thank you) _he doesn't want seconds. He follows behind the beloved third son of the Alpha and he keeps his eyes glued to the ground, lips shut and face impassive at all times. On rare occasions, when he can be persuaded to glance upwards, his Father's angry eyes always burn into his own.

He's only able to meet them for a few precious seconds before lowering his gaze and slinking back into his place as Antonio's shadow. _I don't belong here_, he thinks silently, desperately, inside his head.

* * *

**I DON'T TAKE CHANCES **

Jeremy lifted his head in wonder, gazing at the towering building and its rushing crowds of young men and women who scurried to their classes like little ants. All of the humans so young, so full of life, so green faced and wet behind the ears compared to his sixty years of life experience. What was he doing here, so many years too late? Never in a million years, as the saying went, had he ever dreamed he would be walking up these steps. Never in his wildest dreams had he entertained this possibility; he'd given up on this dream so very many decades ago. But it was Jamie, in the end, who encouraged him to do this. _"I don't take chances. Ever__,__" _he'd said and she'd told him, _"Well, maybe it's time to start." _

Indeed, maybe it was.

* * *

**LASSIE DOWN A WELL **

Jeremy points the boys uneasily into the direction of the gigantic store map and before he has even finished the gesture they are both off, sneaker clad feet zooming down the polished floors at the speed of light. He watches the backs of their heads bob as they dash away and he knows – _**he just knows **__- _

_Three minutes pass. _

He kneels down and gazes into the inky black shaft in mind-numbing panic, scanning the barely visible floor for the glob of a white shirt. A flash of yellow, a mop of curly blond hair down the in the darkness. His wolf cub, fallen down a well. Pitched down an elevator shaft.

"_**Clayton!" **_

No drawl replies. The world swirls by in bursts of colour and words which mean nothing, but people seem to be talking to him and he seems to be talking back without realizing it. His son is lying at the bottom of an elevator shaft, looking half dead and he isn't answering him when he calls his name. Nothing else matters.

"_**Get him to the hospital." **_

* * *

**SMILE AT THE CAMERA **

He checks himself over once more inside the full-length mirror in his hotel room, twisting his lips and flashing his fangs in a desperate effort to force a smile. If Jamie or anyone else at the party were a werewolf, he thinks, they would assume his so-called "smile" was a snarl. He tries again - lips twitching, teeth flashing, throat constricting and eyes tightening - even though he knows it is of absolutely no use.

He flips open the golden pocket watch Antonio gave him for his last birthday, black eyes tracing the words _To Jeremy, Dear childhood friend and Alpha _before coming to rest on the numbers. It's 6:27 now which means that he has been at this foolish game of looking into the mirror for well over an hour. One last "smile" into the glass and he is out the doorway, hoping that Jamie will excuse his idiocies for normal werewolf behaviors.

* * *

**THE ALPHA EMOTION**

_**Passion. **_It was the most all consuming thing that Jeremy had ever experienced in his entire life. A blazing inferno of crimson flames inside his very chest which spread like wild fire in a dry field of summertime grass. _**Passion. **_How it overruled all his precious control! Broke down all his fortress walls and left him shivering and shaking in ecstasy, a wanton thing without even the restraint required for shame, on the floor. When _**Passion**_ speaks it is the Alpha of all other emotions, commanding humans and animals alike and forcing them to fall to their knees in obedience. All creatures bend to will of _**Passion**_, even Jeremy Danvers.

* * *

**UNIQUE MAN **

The first thing Jeremy Danvers did when he came into the world was accomplish failure and the last thing he did when he exited the world was accomplish success. Of course, the old wolf had always firmly believed that those two things were _opposites. _You either won the game or you lost it. There was no in-between state in life, no ties. Life was a win or lose game, as his father had taught him.

But he had been horridly wrong.

Failure and success were sometimes best friends, a wedded couple. Two things so completely intertwined that at times it was utterly impossible to separate one from the other. Failure and success ...two things combined to make something altogether new. Unique.

Failure and success to create the character of a man. A man who's life had not been an entire success nor an entire failure. A man who was nether entirely wolf or completely fox. A man who was just that: a man. Jeremy Malcolm Edward Danvers...and nothing more.


	4. Clayton Danvers

**DISCLAIMER:** _Women of the Otherworld__, its publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**CHAPTER TITLE: **Clayton Danvers

**AUTHOR: **Relala

**BETA: **lady of scarlet

**FANDOM STATUS:** Fanon/Canon

**SPOILERS: **For **Men Of The Otherworld**

* * *

**CAPTURE THE MOMENT **

Clayton is piss drunk inside a tavern in the middle New York city which no Pack member would ever think to enter for the stink of human. Only Elena, sitting beside him on a greasy bar stool, knows who he is at this moment as he calls for more alcohol.

There is no logic to Clayton's world right now. Merely childish impulses for closeness and understanding. He's never had a human as a friend, much less a woman friend, and he doesn't really know romance from affection. The lines between have blurred; if they ever existed at all in his mind, that is. All he knows is that he wishes he could capture this moment in time like a butterfly within a net, preserving it with pinpoint preciseness under a slab of glass within his mind so that he can go back and admire it later on in all its beauty. In fact, he can already feel the moment slipping away from him as the seconds tick by.

If only he could seize her hand at any moment and make the beauty last forever.

* * *

**HUMANS**

Sometimes Clayton is amazed at how inconsiderate humans are.

Even when the people they supposedly love are involved, the individual human always puts his/her selfish needs first, asking themselves "how can this help me?" and "what if I'm personally at risk?" They chose to ignore their elders, hiding them away in houses with barred windows and doors which lock behind them. They even cheat on their mates, falling in and out of love like a swing going up and down, later telling themselves that even if they did love whatshisname or whatshername they love their husbands and wives more.

"Will it put me at risk if I sleep with this man?" asks the wife.

"Sorry, I don't want to kill you. Business, you know?" says the man.

"I cannot believe I was one of you once," Clayton sighs, curling his lip in disgust.

* * *

**KNIFE**

"Jeremy!"

Clayton stopped his growl mid-throat, looking down at his feet so that the older wolf didn't see the hatred in his eyes. Malcolm had a voice that crawled along your skin like insects, making you wish you could get away from it and never hear it ever again. Mostly he used his voice while shouting at Jeremy and that made Clay want to tear his throat out. Tonight will be the night, Clayton decides, that he will grab the knife from the drawer. Tomorrow Malcolm will leave Stonehaven. Screaming, he hopes.

* * *

**NATURAL INSTINCT **

Elena.

Hers was not a beautiful name to the wolf-man. It stumbled like a cripple along the road of his tongue and came out awkward and incorrect. Nonetheless, the charmed Clayton thought the name to have a certain appeal. An appeal that could only have charmed a love struck fool, but that wasn't the point. Love does not understand the mysteries of logic, it does not understand the standards people place upon themselves nor does it understand when it just cannot be. Love is a force of will all of its own accord. It acts on its own and expects people to follow. Love is more than an emotion, it's a natural instinct.

* * *

**RORSCHACH TEST **

"What do you see, Clayton?"

The young werewolf dipped his head of blond curls to the side and pretended to examine the so-called ink blot with his brilliant blue eyes. He ought to teach them a lesson for putting him through all these dumbass tests just so he could be bumped up a grade or two.

"I see two large ink splashes which interconnect in the middle upon a white piece of paper inside a transparent casing held by pale hands which are attached to thin arms attached to a torso which holds up a head with thin lips and green eyes," Clay answered cheerfully, the twitch of a smile playing along his lips for a mere second. "If, however,; you meant to ask me what I _imagined _I saw then my answer would have been very different because _seeing _and _imagining _something are two completely separate things., aAs we all know, even if when you _imagine _something you _see_ it. When you _see _something you experience seeing it in reality and when you _imagine_ something you _see _it in your daydreams or such."

* * *

**WITHIN **

Through the murky, green and black coloured bayou the golden haired Clayton-wolf made his way along, padding through the slippery dirt and swimming through the deep waters. He was still a newcomer to this strange wetland world, sticking his nose into the water and the reeds and dragging in large quantities of each new scent. Placing them away inside the cabinet of his scent and stomach driven mind.

The burning pain of hunger ate away at his thoughts. Mind controlling, stomach cramping hunger. Numb limbs, every nerve dead and yet burning, on fire. Dry throated, sandy-lipped thirst .... Nothing more within the darkness of the bayou. He was losing his human ability to think in a world which didn't require words.

In this darkness, he lost the boy within.

* * *

**LAST CHRISTMAS (song by WHAM!) **

With timid fingers Clayton placed his trembling hands over Elena's and gave it them a squeeze, his hands calloused and strong. His lips parted, a slow breath quivering inside his throat, as he began to whisper the lyrics to her favourite song in his Deep South accent: _"Last Christmas I gave you my heart. But the very next day you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special!" _

Without thinking, without considering her actions, Elena replied with the next line: _"__Once__ bitten and twice shy. I keep my distance but you still catch my eye." _

* * *

**COLOURS**

It's _his_ wrists, Clayton thinks, that he notices first. The sharp bone which nearly looks like a razors edge underneath all that thin skin. When the deep-voiced man swishes his paintbrush around to create beauty on the canvas he flicks his wrist with eccentric flourishes and Clay cannot help but take notice.

For years now the golden-haired werewolf has been living in a world with muted colours which flick past his eyes like annoying flies. He tries to turn away this time, to force the colour to the back of his mind, but Jeremy creates the most wondrous of pictures in blazing colours of vivid orange and darkest black. Jeremy himself, after all, is a beautiful picture with his dark eyes and pink lips.

Suddenly, the colours aren't so unwelcome.

* * *

**HEARTBEAT**

Every forest has a rhythm. A song that is sung inside every leaf that shivers in the delicate breeze, in every green plant and blooming flower, in every owl soaring above the treetops and in every newborn fawn which stumbled into the world on wobbling legs, in every blade of grass trodden under foot. A heartbeat which rumbled deep within the core of the Earth and shook the ground, sending a pulse through the tips of the werewolf'ves paws to the tiny hairs of his ears. An immortal heartbeat, endless and everlasting.

The golden Clay-wolf howled, echoing the voice of his Alpha and his brothers, and the song burst forth into the sky in notes that no human ear would ever understand. They sang out the rhythm of the world, a song that humans had long ago forgotten.

* * *

**STUPID HUMANS **

"And it was _I Was A Teenage Werewolf _that made me think about it. Those werewolves I'm scared of, you know?" Nick's date jabbered. "Those big bear-sized creatures --"

Clayton snorted into his popcorn and Nick gave him a sideways grin as he took a sip of pop, both of them sharing the inner circle joke. The teenage werewolves they knew were human look-alikes, capable of slipping soundlessly into the barriers of society without too much alarm. Monster sized wolves with tusks for fangs, teenage boys with overly hairy palms and uni-brows, were things found only in paperback novels.

Humans can eternally contemplate how much they have evolved and adapted ...but rarely ever do their thoughts expand to the creatures that are doing so right alongside them.


	5. Logan Danvers

**DISCLAIMER: **_Women of the Otherworld, it's publicly recognizable characters, settings, __etc.,__ are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended. _

* * *

**TITLE: **Logan Danvers

**AUTHOR: **Relala

**BETA: **Lady of Scarlet

**FANDOM STATUS: **Fanon

**SPOILERS: **For **Broken **and anything after

**WARNING: **Incest.

* * *

**NOT WORTH IT **

Logan is screaming, a high pitched sequel like that of a wounded doe which echoes like a rubber ball ricocheting off the walls and floor. It's a very horrid sound, the young werewolf knows, like the voice of Death coming out of his own throat.

The Grim Reaper has arrived on his doorstep, not as a gentlemanly fellow in a black cape, but rather in the form of invisible flames which eat away at his insides and boil the flesh.

He cannot take it. He starts crying out for his father, asking him to make it stop. Begging for the pain to end. Make it all go away. Becoming a wolf isn't worth this much pain.

* * *

**MY LULLABY **

The full moon bathes his fur in its silvery light, and Logan throws his head back and howls up at the far away circle. Soon enough the others are singing with him—Antonio, Jeremy, Nick and his mom and dad—their voices singing a forlorn lullaby. It's a canine symphony, a melody to sooth the stars.

Were it not created for his sister's death, perhaps he would find it beautiful.

* * *

**GOD FORBID **

For the most part Logan Danvers goes on with his life as if his whole world hasn't just come crashing down around his ears, the rubble of his entire existence laying at his feet. He thinks that he's done with the guilt sometimes, done with the regret, the hate, the pain in his chest which feels as if someone has wrapped their hand around his heart and begun to squeeze out every last bit of blood within the organ.

Then he remembers.

He is a murderer, a man-eating mutt on the run from the Pack in which his whole family are the leaders. His mother is the Alpha, his father her mate and protector, his grandfather the voice that whispers in their ears, and his sister—his _**twin sister**__**—**_the beginning of a change in their world which has sent echoes into the deepest depths of werewolf life.

And he is everything they are against. He sticks his fingers into the wounds he has created and remembers everything that he has done. He has destroyed four—maybe even six—of his _(former) _Pack's lives, and taken so many more...

God forbid he ever forgets.

* * *

**SCHOOL TIME **

With his six-year-old face pressed to the windowpane, Logan searches the throng for the faces of his family. There is a horrid fear inside his heart that, for some reason, this will be the last time he ever sees them. The longest he has been away from them was an overnight stay in a hotel room with Jamie because Grandpa Jeremy and Momma's aeroplane had been cancelled due to a thundershower and he hadn't been able to endure it, staying up into the morning hours until sheer exhaustion had taken his little body into dreamland.

He has always been with his Pack—his Momma and Dad or his Grandpa, his Uncle Nicky or Antonio. And his twin sister Kathy has _**always **_been at his side. Never more than a heartbeat or a step away.

And now he's going away for _five _days.

Catching the ill-looking expression of worry on his sister's face, he forces a smile and waves farewell, panic stricken. Why did she have to get sick a week before school?

* * *

**FIRST KISS **

It's Logan's first kiss, and as kisses go this one is perfect. He loses himself in the feel of the girl's lips against his own, the warmth and scent of the breath they share together when they stand this close. Butterflies glide inside his stomach, and when the kiss ends and they pull away from each other, the butterflies escape out his mouth in a nervous laugh.

This isn't something that will define him, it's not something that will ever change his life, but sometimes Logan closes his eyes at night and remembers how her breath tasted like watermelon mouthwash, how her lips fit perfectly against the shape of his own.

He can't imagine his life without this moment.

* * *

**WORDS **

The teenage boy collects words.

Words like _asterism _(an optical effect appearing as a star in the light reflected from certain crystals) and _phantasmagoria_ (a series or group of strange or bizarre images seen as if in a dream) or _paroxysm_ (a sudden and uncontrollable expression of emotion).

He places such beautiful words away within the treasure box of his mind and sometimes he likes to imagine that they have been tenderly wrapped in cloth, hidden inside the workshop of his imagination. He is a wordsmith and they are his glorious weapons. As brilliant as the light of day and as sharp and deadly as any wolf's fangs.

* * *

**THIS ISN'T WRONG**

Logan calls his sister over, motioning for her to read something that he has written on the computer screen, and she walks over and throws herself onto his lap. Logan wraps his arms around her waist, buries his nose into her hair and drags in her scent, lets his hands play over her smooth hips.

Katherine does not say no. Does not stop him from kissing the bend of her neck or pull away when his breath explodes like a rush of warm water against her ear.

Neither of them understands how this is wrong. Neither of them can fathom how there can ever be anyone else for the two of them. In a world that has always been just the two of them, how can this ever be wrong? They are more together now than they have ever been before.

* * *

**OLD MAN WINTER **

It's sometime in mid-October that old man winter finally decides to come back home. He sweeps back into Canada as if he hasn't been away for the last four months in some unknown part of the world, kicking up all the beautiful golden-brown and yellow leaves and slapping kisses on everyone, leaving the people with red cheeks and deep coughs. Just greetings as usual, not too gentle reminders that he never stays away for long.

And the young man standing at the window with his fingers pressed to the pane cannot help but smile. Snow means Christmas holidays, and that means going home.

* * *

**JUST A LITTLE AFRAID **

Clayton places his hand on his son's shoulder and Logan goes as still as death, feeling as if the hand were a heavy weight on the glass top of his shoulder. He glances at the giant paw, eyes running over the prominent knuckles, the cracked ageing lines and the torn nails, and he shivers just a little. Only a little.

"You cold?" father asks, his voice as smooth and as pure as honey with its drawl and its concern.

"I'm fine," the younger werewolf says. _(It's just that sometimes I look at you and I think about what you have done to other wolves as young and as innocent as me. It's just that when I look at those hands I see them breaking in a thousand other faces I never knew and I see them tucking me in at night and holding my hand as I cross the street.)_

**THE TALE ENDS **

The mutt lunges at him, and Logan barely escapes the attack. Knuckles brush over the skin of his cheek, and his heart is a hammer inside his chest.

Logan Danvers is not a fighter. It's his twin sister, Kate, who spent the long summer days with their father, learning how to throw punches and deliver kicks that could knock grown men unconscious. Somehow the fighting gene didn't pass to him. He'd spent his summer hours curled up under the trees in their front yard, his eyes trained on his current novel.

How could he have guessed his love of reading would get him killed? It's not like he could predict the future.

THE END

* * *

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